My family and other animals..

If you feel you can offer an older cat a home,please contact your local Cat's Protection league,they are waitng for you.

http://www.chesterfieldcats.co.uk/

A very sad day for us this day Monday 25th September 2006 ...our little rescue Siamese cross aged 10- Mallow has gone to sleep forever...so poorly,so missed,so naughty,so loved....xxxx

And now on this Christmas day..Monday 25th December 2006 we have lost our rescue bearded collie cross Daisy aged 14.....everyone who knew Daisy would certainly never forget her...Rest in peace now Daise,no more suffering little girlie..

If they let me through the pearly gates, and I admit there is some doubt.
I hope my friend is waiting, 'cos I'll surely give a shout.
She left me one short day ago, a problem with her health.
Now all I have are memories of which she left a wealth.

I'm not sure if it's normal - but it surely is for me.
That every time I think of herI have trouble trying to see.
I know she didn't suffer, and I passed the hardest test.
One simple, quick injection, then she was at rest.

I think about the long long years, of happiness and bliss.
At no time in our relationship did I ever think of this.
The sorrow of the parting, my vision thick like fog.
It ended so abruptly, God how I miss that dog.

TOURIST TRAP

Have you ever been to Wagamama?
It’s New Zealand’s nearest neighbour to the east.
You’ll be welcomed with a smile, in traditional Maori style,
And you’ll surely be invited to a feast.

If you decide to go to Wagamama
You’ll find the people very willing to assist.
They like to show you round and they really love the sound
Of a tourist getting well and truly pissed.

They live a simple life in Wagamama,
But there’s one thing they consider rather fine.
The elders have been known to state that the best thing on a plate
Is a stranger who’s been steeped in Waga wine.

When daylight starts to fade in Wagamama
And the locals take the lids off HP sauce,
Be polite and wash your feet - that’s the first bit that they eat
When you join them as their evening meal’s main course.

Some people do come back from Wagamama.
The brochures say that, so it must be true.
They’re the ones who don’t get drunk and they’re quick to do a bunk
When the cooking water gets to ninety-two!

There’s such a lot to see in Wagamama.
The daily earthquake can be so much fun.
And there are six volcanoes - live! - and the tidal waves still thrive,
Not to mention every native has a gun.

You could bring me something back from Wagamama.
I’d love a local cookery book - I’ll pay.
Either Out of Season Fare - for use when foreigners aren’t there,
Or What To Do If Dinner Runs Away.

I’m glad you’ve bought a trip to Wagamama.
It’s this week’s very special bargain price.
I hope that you enjoy your stay and - if you get back OK -
Come to me for more holiday advice.

The girl that used to be me.....

It's been my dream since childhood, since I read for the first time the immortal ancient myths and legends; Greece where the sea is so blue that Aphrodite could be born only from its foam and the sun so gold that it makes the whole country glow with the eternal forever young smile, Greece that the Gods chose as their residence.

A group of puppies rescued by a lady in Greece,this is on going all year round...

A Corfu cat....

This is by courtesy of our eldest Son ....

He has always had a way with words.....luv sweet peas every day.. with petals pink that swing and sway.. so fragrant are their many blooms ..until a sports car past them zooms.and crushes the little buggers - flat as a blinkin' pancake!

Keats.Here are Sweet Peas on tiptoe for a flight,
With wings of gentle flush or delicate white,
And taper fingers catching at all things
To bind them all about with tiny wings.

Sweetpea

Poem by Sandra Romer .
I reach out and touch
your scarlet face
fragile perfect
growing in a beautiful place
a soft scent drifts in the breeze
again you appear
before the long winters freeze
a sight to behold
your colour again so bold
every year
I wait for this day
to come into the garden and say
a flower in your usual flair
and for a moment
I haven't a care.

Stay in England for a stress free break....there is no place better....

From one pumpkin to another!!!!!!!

A woman was asked by a coworker,

'What is it like to be a Christian?'

The coworker replied, 'It is like being a pumpkin.'

God picks you from the patch, brings you in,

and washes all the dirt off of you.

Then He cuts off the top and scoops out all the yucky stuff.
He removes the seeds of doubt, hate, and greed.

Then He carves you a new smiling face and

puts His light inside of you to shine for all the world to see.'

This was passed on to me by another pumpkin.

Now it's your turn to pass it to other pumpkins.

I liked this enough to send it to all the pumpkins in my patch.

Seize the day~
Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song, A medley of extemporanea; And love is a thing that can never go wrong; And I am Marie of Roumania. - Dorothy Parker (1893 - 1967)

"Only when the last tree has died, the last river has been poisoned and the last fish caught will we realise that we cannot eat money" 19thC Native American

Some people found this fawn on their front steps and took this photo. The white spots on the steps are apple blossom petals. The fawn stayed there all morning until the doe came to get it after about 5 hours. ...

Happy Motoring...Would JRC 354 pull in please ?!

This is us two in 1952 !!!! when we were film stars !!!!!

www.bluebellwood.org

Let's see if I can show you my kind of music,are you sitting comfortably ? then I'll begin

Dick Barton ........Special Agent,on the wireless! every evening at 6:45,never missed it.

http://www.whirligig-tv.co.uk/radio/index.htm

http://www.lovethissite.com/wrinkle/

The whirligig music has lot's of interesting item's,even the year it began for us .......The Coronation June 2nd 1953,enjoy......

Home thoughts...... from 'Down Under'

The sky is hard as opal,and the sun’s a copper blaze I’m taking down the calendar and marking off the days.
I hear the magpies carol in the eucalyptus trees.
But I can hear another voice,which calls me overseas.
And soon I’ll see a softer sky,I’ll hear a robin sing.
For I’m going back to England!To “ green and April” England!
I’m going home to England…To England …in the Spring!

I’ll climb the hills of Derbyshire,I’ll walk a Devon Lane.
And apple boughs will christen me with healing April rain.
I’ll hear,beneath the Major Oak,the horn of Robin Hood.
And pause beside the Avon,where Shakespeare often stood.
For my heart is sick for England,and the days drag by so slow.
Until I fly to England – to “rose and hawthorn” England-----
And I’ll walk again in England where wild roses grow.

Wherever the Pope has travelled ,he kneels to kiss the ground.
And I think that I may do the same {when nobody’s around !}
By a leaping brook in Derbyshire .or on a Devon Tor,
And know the singing silence of Yorkshire Minster just once more.
I’ll lie again on heather moors,while clouds go drifting past,
For there’s peace to find in England…..
In green and rain –blessed England!
And the hunger that I carry will be satisfied at last!

Days will shrink,as raindrops do,beneath the noonday glow.
And before my heart is fully filled I’ll find it’s time to go!
For jet planes wait for no man,and when June’s last roses die.
I must rise into the waiting clouds that mist the English sky.
But though my eyes turn homeward,my heart is left behind.
In sea-encircled England-by the white chalk cliffs of England,
In that dear loved “land of heart’s desire” I came so far to find

It is Spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters'-and- rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine to-night in the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows' weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now.

Hush, the babies are sleeping, the farmers, the fishers, the tradesmen and pensioners, cobbler, schoolteacher, postman and publican, the undertaker and the fancy woman, drunkard, dressmaker, preacher, policeman, the webfoot cocklewomen and the tidy wives. Young girls lie bedded soft or glide in their dreams, with rings and trousseaux, bridesmaided by glow-worms down the aisles of the organplaying wood. The boys are dreaming wicked or of the bucking ranches of the night and the jollyrogered sea. And the anthracite statues of the horses sleep in the fields, and the cows in the byres, and the dogs in the wet-nosed yards; and the cats nap in the slant corners or lope sly, streaking and needling, on the one cloud of the roofs.

You can hear the dew falling, and the hushed town breathing.

Only your eyes are unclosed to see the black and folded town fast, and slow, asleep.

And you alone can hear the invisible starfall, the darkest-before- dawn minutely dewgrazed stir of the black, dab-filled sea where the Arethusa, the Curlew and the Skylark, Zanzibar, Rhiannon, the Rover, the Cormorant, and the Star of Wales tilt and ride.

Listen. It is night moving in the streets, the processional salt slow musical wind in Coronation Street and Cockle Row, it is the grass growing on Llareggub Hill, dewfall, starfall, the sleep of birds in Milk Wood.

Listen. It is night in the chill, squat chapel, hymning in bonnet and brooch and bombazine black, butterfly choker and bootlace bow, coughing like nannygoats, suckling mintoes, fortywinking hallelujah; night in the four-ale, quiet as a domino; in Ocky Milkman's lofts like a mouse with gloves; in Dai Bread's bakery flying like black flour. It is to-night in Donkey Street, trotting silent, with seaweed on its hooves, along the cockled cobbles, past curtained fernpot, text and trinket, harmonium, holy dresser, watercolours done by hand, china dog and rosy tin teacaddy. It is night neddying among the snuggeries of babies.

Look. It is night, dumbly, royally winding though the Coronation cherry trees; going through the graveyard of Bethesda with winds gloved and folded, and dew doffed; tumbling by the Sailors Arms.

Time passes. Listen. Time passes.

Come closer now.

Only you can hear the houses sleeping in the streets in the slow deep salt and silent black, bandaged night. Only you can see in the blinded bedrooms, the combs and petticoats over the chairs, the jugs and basins, the glasses of teeth, Thou Shalt Not on the wall, and the yellowing, dickybird-watching pictures of the dead. Only you can hear and see, behind the eyes of the sleepers, the movements and countries and mazes and colours and dismays and rainbows and tunes and wishes and flight and fall and despairs and big seas of their dreams.

From where you are, you can hear their dreams........

I'll never forget that first day at t'pit.
Me an' mi father worked a 72 hour shift, then wi walked home 43 mile through t'snow in us bare feet, huddled inside us clothes med out o' old sacks.
Eventually we trudged over t'hill until wi could see t'street light twinklin' in our village.
Mi father smiled down at mi through t'icicles hangin' off his nose. "Nearly home now lad", he said.
We stumbled into t'house and stood there freezin' cold and tired out, shiverin' and miserable, in front o' t' meagre fire.
Any road, mi mam says "Cheer up, lads. I've got you some nice brown bread and butter for yer tea."
Ee, mi father went crackers. He reached out and gently pulled mi mam towards 'im by t'throat. "You big fat, idle ugly wart", he said. "You gret useless spawny-eyed parrot-faced wazzock." ('E had a way wi words, mi father. He'd bin to college, y'know). "You've been out playin' bingo all afternoon instead o' gettin' some proper snap ready for me an' this lad", he explained to mi poor, little, purple-faced mam.
Then turnin' to me he said "Arthur", (He could never remember mi name), "here's half a crown. Nip down to t'chip 'oyl an' get us a nice piece o' 'addock for us tea. Man cannot live by bread alone."
He were a reyt tater, mi father.
He said as 'ow workin' folk should have some dignity an' pride an' self respect, an' as 'ow they should come home to summat warm an' cheerful.
An' then he threw mi mam on t'fire.
We didn't 'ave no tellies or shoes or bedclothes.
We med us own fun in them days.
Do you know, when I were a lad you could get a tram down into t'town, buy three new suits an' an ovvercoat, four pair o' good boots, go an' see George Formby at t'Palace Theatre, get blind drunk, 'ave some steak an' chips, bunch o' bananas an' three stone o' monkey nuts an' still 'ave change out of a farthing.
We'd lots o' things in them days they 'aven't got today - rickets, diptheria, Hitler and my, we did look well goin' to school wi' no backside in us trousers an' all us little 'eads painted purple because we 'ad ringworm.
They don't know they're born today!!! ...... The late Tony Capstick

Or this from Monty Python...

Aye. In them days, we'd a' been glad to have the price of a cup o' tea.

A cup ' COLD tea.

Without milk or sugar.

OR tea!

In a filthy, cracked cup.

We never used to have a cup. We used to have to drink out of a rolled up newspaper.

The best WE could manage was to suck on a piece of damp cloth.

But you know, we were happy in those days, though we were poor.

Aye. BECAUSE we were poor. My old Dad used to say to me, "Money doesn't buy you happiness."

'E was right. I was happier then and I had NOTHIN'. We used to live in this tiiiny old house, with greaaaaat big holes in the roof.

House? You were lucky to have a HOUSE! We used to live in one room, all hundred and twenty-six of us, no furniture. Half the floor was missing; we were all huddled together in one corner for fear of FALLING!

You were lucky to have a ROOM! We used to have to live in a corridor!

Ohhhh we used to DREAM of livin' in a corridor! Woulda' been a palace to us. We used to live in an old water tank on a rubbish tip. We got woken up every morning by having a load of rotting fish dumped all over us! House!? Hmph.

Well when I say "house" it was only a hole in the ground covered by a piece of tarpolin, but it was a house to US.

We were evicted from *our* hole in the ground; we had to go and live in a lake!

You were lucky to have a LAKE! There were a hundred and sixty of us living in a small shoebox in the middle of the road.

Cardboard box?

Aye.

You were lucky. We lived for three months in a brown paper bag in a septic tank. We used to have to get up at six o'clock in the morning, clean the bag, eat a crust of stale bread, go to work down mill for fourteen hours a day week in-week out. When we got home, out Dad would thrash us to sleep with his belt!

Luxury. We used to have to get out of the lake at three o'clock in the morning, clean the lake, eat a handful of hot gravel, go to work at the mill every day for tuppence a month, come home, and Dad would beat us around the head and neck with a broken bottle, if we were LUCKY!

Well we had it tough. We used to have to get up out of the shoebox at twelve o'clock at night, and LICK the road clean with our tongues. We had half a handful of freezing cold gravel, worked twenty-four hours a day at the mill for fourpence every six years, and when we got home, our Dad would slice us in two with a bread knife.

Right. I had to get up in the morning at ten o'clock at night, half an hour before I went to bed, eat a lump of cold poison, work twenty-nine hours a day down mill, and pay mill owner for permission to come to work, and when we got home, our Dad would kill us, and dance about on our graves singing "Hallelujah."

But you try and tell the young people today that... and they won't believe ya'.

Nope, nope...

WHEN I'M AN OLD LADY

When I'm an old lady, I'll live with each kid,
And bring so much happiness... just as they did.
I want to pay back all the joy they've provided,
Returning each deed. Oh, they'll be so excited!
(When I'm an old lady and live with my kids)

I'll write on the wall with reds, whites and blues,

And bounce on the furniture wearing my shoes.
I'll drink from the carton and then leave it out.
I'll stuff all the toilets and oh, how they'll shout!
(When I'm an old lady and live with my kids)

When they're on the phone and just out of reach,
I'll get into things like sugar and bleach,
Oh, they'll snap their fingers and then shake their head,
And when that is done I'll hide under the bed!
(When I'm an old lady and live with my kids)

When they cook dinner and call me to eat,
I'll not eat my green beans or salad or meat.
I'll gag on my okra, spill milk on the table,
And when they get angry I'll run... if I'm able!
(When I'm an old lady and live with my kids)

I'll sit close to the TV, through the channels I'll click,
I'll cross both my eyes just to see if they stick.
I'll take off my socks and throw one away,
And play in the mud 'til the end of the day!
(When I'm an old lady and live with my kids)

And later in bed, I'll lay back and sigh,
I'll thank God in prayer and then close my eyes.
My kids will look down with a smile slowly creeping,
And say with a groan. "She's so sweet ..... when she's sleeping!"
(When I'm an old lady and live with my kids)

The Way Through the WoodsThey shut the road through the woods Seventy years ago. Weather and rain have undone it again, And now you would never know There was once a road through the woods Before they planted the trees. It is underneath the coppice and heath, And the thin anemones. Only the keeper sees That, where the ring-dove broods, And the badgers roll at ease, There was once a road through the woods. Yet, if you enter the woods Of a summer evening late, When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools Where the otter whistles his mate. (They fear not men in the woods, Because they see so few) You will hear the beat of a horse's feet, And the swish of a skirt in the dew, Steadily cantering through The misty solitudes, As though they perfectly knew The old lost road through the woods . . . . But there is no road through the woods. --

What is life? Life is stepping down a step or sitting in a chair.
And it isn't there.
Life is not having been told that the man has just waxed the floor.
Life is pulling doors marked PUSH and pushing doors marked PULL and not
    noticing notices which say PLEASE USE OTHER DOOR.
It is when you diagnose a sore throat as an unprepared geography lesson
    and send your child weeping to school only to be returned an hour
    later covered with spots that are indubitable genuine.
Life is a concert with a trombone soloist filling in for Yehudi Menuhin.
But, were it not for frustration and humiliation
I suppose the human race would get ideas above its station.
Somebody once described Shelley as a beautiful and ineffective angel
    beating his luminous wings against the void in vain.
Which is certainly describing with might and main.
But probably means that we are all brothers under our pelts.
And that Shelley went around pulling doors marked PUSH and pushing doors
    marked PULL just like everybody else.

For years a fairy queen I've been
For years I foiled the Demon King
But alas I'm getting on the years have flown somehow
And I feel that Fairy Snowdrop isn't wanted now

Chorus
Nobody loves a fairy when she's [forty] fifty
Nobody loves a fairy when she's old

She may still have a magic power but that is not enough
They like their bit of magic from a younger bit of stuff
When once your silver star has lost its glitter
And your tinsel looks like rust instead of gold
Fairy days are ending when your wand has started bending
No-one loves a fairy when shes old

For years I reigned in Fairy Dell
I waved my wand and waved it well
If I can't do all I did Im satisfied because
I'd sooner be a Has-Been that I would a Never Was

Nobody loves....
Nobody loves..

The face of this Immortal One to many has appealed
But gone is the illusion once you've had it soled and heeled
When you've lost your little fairy dimples
And the moth holes in your dress let in the cold
The Goblins and the Pixies turn their backs and say Hi Nixey
No one loves a fairy when she's old.

Nobody loves.....
Nobody loves.....

As far as I can see they try to push you off the map
When once your wand has withered and your wings refuse to flap
When you can't cast a spell without it spilling
And a fairy tale for years you haven't told
You stand there shouting What O.. but they all pass by your Grotto
Nobody loves a fairy when shes old.

Nobody loves.....
Nobody loves.....

They don't give you an earthly chance to make a livelihood
Theyre building council houses now in my enchanted wood
When you are past the age for Television
And the air you use is government controlled
It seems that they would sooner
Listen to a blinkin' crooner
Nobody loves a fairy when shes old.

As I grow in age, I value older women most of all. Here are just a few reasons why. An older woman will never wake you in the middle of the night to ask, "What are you thinking?" She doesn't care what you think.

An older woman knows herself well enough to be assured in who she is, what she is, what she wants and from whom. Few women past the age of 50 give a damn what you might think about her.

An older single woman usually has had her fill of "meaningful relationships" and "commitment". The last thing she needs in her life is another dopey, clingy, whiny, dependent lover!

Older women are dignified. They seldom have a screaming match with you at the opera or in the middle of an expensive restaurant. Of course, if you deserve it, they won't hesitate to shoot you if they think they can get away with it.

Most older women cook well. They care about cleanliness and are generous with praise, often undeserved.

An older woman has the self-assurance to introduce you to her women friends. A younger woman with a man will often ignore even her best friend because she doesn't trust the guy with other women Older women couldn't care less...

Women get psychic as they age. You never have to confess your sins to an older woman. They always know...

An older woman looks good wearing bright red lipstick. This is not true of younger women or drag queens...

Once you get past a wrinkle or two, an older woman is far sexier than her younger counterpart. Her libido's stronger, her fear of pregnancy gone...

Older women are forthright and honest. They'll tell you right off you are a jerk if you are acting like one...

Yes, we praise older women for a multitude of reasons. Unfortunately, it's not reciprocal. For every stunning, smart, well-coifed babe of 50+ there is a bald, paunchy relic in yellow pants making a fool of himself with some 22 year old waitress...

Ladies, I apologize for all of us..

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master,
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And—which is more—you'll be a Man, my son!

— Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

Warning - When I Am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple

By Jenny Joseph

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple

with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

and satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired

and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

and run my stick along the public railings

and make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

and pick the flowers in other people's gardens

and learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

and eat three pounds of sausages at a go

or only bread and pickles for a week

and hoard pens and pencils and beer nuts and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

and pay our rent and not swear in the street

and set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

I am going to quote this as my swan song,who knows.....

The strangest thought came to me on this morning
As I awake to greet the coming dawn
The sun was hardly peaking through the garden
It felt that with everything I was one

Then I wished that I could come back as a flower
As a flower
As a flower
How I wished that I could come back as a flower
As a flower
To spread the sweetness of love
To spread the sweetness of love

The dew had finished making love to many
A rainbow smelling sweet was in the air
I envied all the silence I saw growing
So unmoved by things outside themselves

Then how I wished that I could come back as a flower
As a flower
As a flower
How I wished that I could come back as a flower
As a flower
To spread the sweetness of love

How I wished that I could come back as a flower
Oh as a flower
As a flower
How I wished that I could come back as a flower
As a flower
As a flower
To spread the sweetness of love
To spread the sweetness of love

Wished that I could come back as a flower
Flower
Flower

Wished that I could come back as a flower
Flower
Sweetness of love

How I come back as a flower
Flower
Flower
How I come back as a flower
Flower

Sweetness of love
Sweetness of love

The landlord was busy at polishing his glasses
Just so his best ales would look good
When in through the door a white horse arrived
And up to the bar he then stood

A pint of beer please the white horse then said
Can you pull one up just for me
By heck said the landlord a talking white horse
There is a drink named after you, a whiskey

Now that is something I have not heard before
A drink named after me deserves merit
But said the white horse I am quite surprised
That you have a whiskey called Eric!!!!!!

“All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That’s his.”
Oscar Wilde !

I hope you have enjoyed my efforts so far,if you would like to put your feet up .....there are a few more pages,and don't shoot the pianist she is doing her best

Now I’ve tried all the normal approaches
All the pick-ups an’ chat-ups an stuff
Tried mi hand at so-phistication
Wi’ some girls who were nowt if not rough
I’ve been seen down the discos an’ dances
Bought cocktails for them as were broke
In mi quest for the perfect companion
Who’d see me as her perfect bloke

I’ve dealt with the best datin’ agents
I’ve filled in their forms an’ towd lies
About how I’m just like a male model
Wi’ tight buttocks an’ sparklin’ blue eyes
I’ve squandered mi wages on chatlines
Spent two quid a minute on t’ phone
Where I’ve ended up gaggin’ for Charleen
Even though she weighs thirty-two stone

I’ve frequented bars down the dockside
Where there’s ladies that’s best left alone
An’ I’ve offered mi body quite freely
But I’ve allus walked home on mi own
So just cos it’s comin’ up Christmas
An’ I’ve no soddin’ prospects in store
I’m wazzin’ this e-mail to Lapland dot com
An’ I’m hopin’ that this time I’ll score

Dear Santa, please bring me a woman
Fer some fun in mi fifty-third year
Let’s forget all the monogrammed ‘ankies
All the socks an’ the chocs an’ the beer
You could leave me a fun-lovin’ floozie
Or a perfectly sweet English rose
An’ what could be quite stonkin’ is a lass who loves bonkin’
Now I really would like one o’ those

Please bring a voluptuous woman
A partner, a pal an’ a mate
I can take for a romp in the boudoir
Wi’out havin’ the need to inflate
Perhaps I should spare you the detail
But a session’s got nowt to enthral
When yer off up to bed wi’ a bike pump
An’ a puncture repair kit an’ all

Please bring me a home-lovin’ woman
Cos I’ve brushed-up mi cookin’ technique
No Spam, egg an’ chips like mi mam does
But dishes that’s sexy an’ chic
We’ll ‘ave seafood an’ hot, sticky puddin
Drink wine ‘til we’re Mozart an’ Liszt
Then I’ll make several filthy suggestions
Till she finds one she just can’t resist

Please bring me an underwear woman
A lingerie kind of a dame
Who loves to wear silky suspenders
An’ doesn’t mind me doin’ t’ same
We can twang at each others elastics
Then I’ll climb up the cupboards (top shelf)
Where I’ll fling off mi big, baggy Y-Fronts
An’ dive in like the Devil ‘imself

Please bring me a kind, carin’ woman
Cos I know I’ve gone well past mi prime
But I’m sure I can still do the business
If I just take mi tablets on time
I won’t pester no more, that’s a promise
You won’t hear me again, not one squeak
So Santa, please bring me a woman
An’ a fresh one each night of the week